


Dog Whisperer in the Sheets

by JoeyTebbie



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Dog!Deadpool, Domestic, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Licking, M/M, Peter Parker Without Powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-01 13:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18335171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeyTebbie/pseuds/JoeyTebbie
Summary: Peter starts hearing a weird voice in his dreams when he decides to foster a stray Great Dane, but never remembers the actual conversation when he wakes up.He also discovers there's a dog treat called Pup-peroni.





	Dog Whisperer in the Sheets

_“Peter, can you come down to the vet on the corner? Someone brought a dog into the hospital I work at. It’s like they have no clue we only treat people there. Can you come over? It’s badly hurt.”_

It is badly hurt. Its left hind leg is bent at an unnatural angle, clearly broken. When he rushes there after hearing the voice message, Aunt May has already signed the waiver for it to receive immediate medical attention. 

“It’s in surgery right now,” Aunt May says, fingers fidgeting nervously in her lap. “The woman that took it in fled as soon as she dropped it on the gurney parked in my hallway. Oh, Peter, I think it was in dog fights or something similar, it’s in such a bad shape. Who would do such a thing?”

Peter pats her on the back and lets her put her head on his shoulder. He’s equally upset even though he hasn’t seen the dog’s condition; he can’t comprehend the thought of intentionally hurting any living thing. 

A nurse comes out from the back and calls, “Mrs. Parker?”

They are led to an office where the surgeon operated on the dog tells them it’s fine and should fully recover in three months. 

“There is no chip, and he’s not neutered. We think he might be used for his pure blood.”

“Pure blood of what?” Peter asked confusedly. His unhelpful brain is coming up with Harry Potter references, but he squashes the urge to voice them. 

“Oh, right, you haven’t even met it- him- yet,” Aunt May realizes. 

They are led to another separate room where the dog is resting, because he’s ‘too big for any of the cages’. Peter is only getting more confused by the second before they finally see the dog on a cot on the floor. 

The cot is human size. The dog is human size. The dog is huge. 

“He’s a pure blood Great Dane,” the surgeon says. “Estimate age is five. As I have said, the shinbone should be fine, but the skin condition doesn’t look great. We have something he could try, but the chances of his fur growing fully back are slim.”

It is very clear what she’s talking about. The dog is missing fur in a lot of spots, and the skin looks pink and tender. Peter and his aunt crouch down, carefully avoiding the IV line. Despite the surgeon saying he won’t be waking up for another few hours, the dog’s eyelids flutter open a smidge to watch the people gathered around him. 

Peter’s eyes met the most beautiful hazel irises he’s ever seen his whole life. Besides giving Peter a once over, the dog doesn’t move. Those expressive, albeit tired eyes travel back to Peter’s and stay there. Peter startles when he hears tapping against the floor. When he looks to where the sound is coming from, he sees the dog wagging its tail and tapping the floor with each swish. 

Peter smiles and looks back at those dark eyes. “Hi, big boy,” he gently scratches his fingers on top of the dog’s head, right between his floppy ears. “Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

Under the gentle scratching, the dog pushes out a breath through his nose like a sigh and closes his eyes. Peter continues the scratching a bit longer after that. 

 

 

 

 

At the start of pumpkin spice latte season, Peter decides to foster the dog. Aunt May can’t take care of him with her spending-four-fifths-of-the-day-to-day-at-work busy lifestyle, and they are both too soft to leave the dog at a shelter. Although Aunt May had insisted on sharing half of it and the vet giving them a stray discount, Peter still has to break out his emergency fund to pay for the medical bills and get some necessities. He also picked up a whole box of instant ramen on their way back. He supposes he should thank whichever deity that decides to grant the dog a speedy recovery so he can still afford instant ramen; even the vet was shocked when the dog started standing right after week one. 

Actually taking the dog home is surprisingly without much hassle. Although he comes up to just below Peter’s chest and can probably easily surpass his height if he stands on his hind legs, the dog is well-behaved and never once tugs on the leash in Peter’s hand. When they get into the apartment, the dog wanders around and sniffs everything cautiously before lying down on the carpet against the living room wall.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Peter shakes his head. “I can’t let you sleep on the floor, you are still recovering.”

He guides the dog into the bedroom and gestures to the bed. “You are so huge, I don’t think any dog beds will fit, so I was thinking maybe we can try sharing the bed.” 

The dog looks at him, then looks at the queen bed, then curls up into a C on the floor next to the bed.

“Oh, no, I mean the bed, not the floor,” Peter gives the leash a gentle tug. When the dog doesn’t move, Peter tries picking him up and laughs at the absurdity. The dog is basically a pony. If he doesn’t want to move, no one can make him move. “Alright, big boy,” Peter gives up and sits down to give him a few pets. “Whatever you want, okay?”

 

 

 

 

The first two days go by peacefully. The dog doesn’t move much except for going potty in the tiny backyard of their apartment. Peter notices the dog marks every corner of the space and thinks that’s probably normal dog behavior; after all, he’s never had a dog in his life.

On the third day, the dog starts ‘talking’.

As a part-time biology assistant at Stark Industry, Peter has to go in to work on Monday. He makes sure both the food and the water bowl are full and leaves while the dog is still smacking his lips around the peanut butter covered antibiotics Peter gave him. When he comes back at six, he can hear low whimpering through the door. Imagining the dog has somehow injured himself, Peter quickly turns the key with cold sweats down his back, but before he can actually step into the apartment, the dog shoots out like a bullet and tackles him to the ground. He lies down on top of Peter and puts his chin down on top of his chest like a giant seal, the whimper turning into high-pitched whines with no signs of stopping anytime soon. Peter tries his best at patting him down to check for injuries with his limited mobility, since getting up is simply not an option at the moment. The dog doesn’t shy away from his light touches on his injured leg, so Peter is at least relieved he didn’t tear his stitches during his absence.

“Hey, big boy, hey, shh,” Peter hushes the dog without stopping the petting. “I’m here. Everything’s going to be fine.”

They lie on the hallway floor until eventually the dog quiets down and reluctantly stands to move. Peter sits up but waits a minute more for the pins and needles in the lower half of his body to go away before standing. The dog plasters himself to Peter’s leg when they finally go into the apartment, which remains just as Peter left it that morning, except for how his pillow is now on the bedroom floor where the dog usually curls up to sleep. It’s very clear the dog dragged it there, and he doesn’t mind that much, but the dog starts to whimper again at the sight.

“Nothing to worry about,” Peter reassures, but the whimper doesn’t stop, so Peter walks them both back out before it escalates. 

After feeding the both of them, the dog apparently glued to his legs and not moving anywhere, Peter gives him another peanut butter covered pill. The dog takes it hesitantly and plops his head down in Peter’s lap immediately, effectively preventing him from getting up from the sofa. Peter suspects the dog has already associated peanut butter with him going away, but dismisses the ridiculous thought soon enough. Since he can’t move, he decides to flip through the hardcover of Dog Owner 101 he picked up when he first decided to take care of the dog. He flips through the first few pages before stumbling on the words ‘Separation Anxiety’. _Huh,_ he thinks, and reads on.

The dog has been staying at the vet for two weeks, where there’re always people around, and then spent the weekend with Peter. Peter has no idea how he lived before that, but there’s a chance the dog’s never spent time alone in his life. This could explain the sudden clinginess; before today, the dog rarely initiates contact and prefers to watch Peter from a distance. If Peter moves out of his line of sight, he moves with Peter and continues to watch him. Now, however, the dog is like a magnet on the fridge, if the fridge is Peter’s various body parts. 

Peter reads through the section and does more research online. It’s almost midnight when he’s done, and the dog is drooling against his lap. He gets up and yawns his way to the bedroom, falling face first into the comforter. Seconds later, he hears the dog pads into the room and turns to see him standing right next to the bed, pillow in his mouth, eyes heavy with sleep.

Peter scoots over and pats the space invitingly. “Come on, up. You know you want to.”

Maybe it’s the fatigue of the day, or maybe the hardwood floor finally gets to him, the dog only hesitates a bit before getting on the bed and curling up into a familiar C, nose pressed into Peter’s abdomen. Peter scratches the top of his head and says, “Listen, tomorrow we’ll do some exercise. We can’t have you go through panic attacks whenever I leave the apartment.”

The dog says, “Bow ow ow ow grrr.”

Peter laughs out loud, tiredness temporarily gone. “That’s a lot of words, big boy. What are you trying to say?”

The dog responds with more doggy noises, and Peter chuckles. “We never decided on what to call you, have we? I’ve never done it. Naming something, I mean. What do you think we should call you?” But it wouldn’t make sense to do that, since Peter’s only fostering the dog for the time being. He hasn’t gotten the chance to post for adoption yet, but obviously he can’t take care of a Great Dane forever. He lives in a tiny apartment. He’s never had a dog before. Surely there’s someone more capable than him. The list goes on. 

The dog makes rumbling sounds in his throat. They push Peter to sleep before he can think of another reason to add to the list.

 

It feels like being in a warm cloud, is how he would describe it. It’s bright but not too bright. He feels weightless. If this is how getting high is like, Peter can understand why people are willing to pay $20 for a quality gram.

 _Peter,_ he hears someone says. He tries to tilt his head toward the voice.

_Peter. Peter. Pe-ter._

_What?_ Peter thinks but doesn’t say. He’s too comfortable to open his mouth.

Before he knows it, he’s engulfed by the cloud.

 

 

 

 

Peter sips his coffee at the tiny kitchen counter the next day while having a staring contest with the dog. He’s already taken him to the backyard, checked the stiches, fed him his meds and filled out the food and water bowls. Nothing else for him to do and stall. 

“Okay,” Peter puts the half-cold mug in the sink and takes a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

He walks to his bedroom and closes the door before the dog can follow him in. At first, there’s silence on the other side, and then the shuffling begins. The dog tries pushing the door with his snout. When that doesn’t work, he gnaws on the door handle. When that proves to be useless as well, he starts to claw at the bottom of the door. Peter counts seven minutes before he finally gives up on anymore onslaught and walks away whimpering. 

Peter can hear the dog padding around the apartment trying to find him in other rooms. He feels slightly nauseated but stays in the room for the recommended 20 minutes. When he opens the door, he’s not surprised to hear the dog rushing back towards the noise, but before he can reach him, Peter’s already moving around, keeping half a mind on not facing the dog. The strategy works as the dog clearly wants to figure out the best angle to jump on him like yesterday. Unable to do that, he settles for twirling around Peter’s feet in excitement.

Peter moves like he doesn’t have a dog the size of a mini horse tripping his every step. He goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and then decides to do laundry. He separates the whites from the colors and peels off the bed sheets to add to the load. It’s so nice the apartment comes with its own washer-dryer, and he doesn’t have to go to a single Laundry Express ever again.

A head-butt against his arm interrupts Peter’s rapid thoughts, and he grins down at the disgruntled face. The whimper has decreased in intensity but still audible. “What? Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a simple guy and a big boy trying to go about their day.”

Peter grabs his laptop and sits cross-legged on the sofa, acting nonchalant, and watches the dog from the corner of his eye. He seems calmer but a bit baffled, like he’s questioning if that 20 minutes of being left alone ever happened. Eventually the dog decides to lie down and watch Peter with careful eyes. They remain like that until the washer beeps, and Peter walks over to push the button for it to start drying. The dog lifts his head to follow Peter’s movement with his eyes but doesn’t get up to follow him. Peter smiles and counts that as progress.

He does it four more times during the day, leaving the dog by himself and not reacting to his anxious fussing, trying his best to ingrain the idea of normalcy into him leaving for longer and longer periods of time. The dog jumps up with him when it’s time for bed, and Peter falls asleep with the dog talking into his hipbone once again.

The next day, Peter goes to work in the morning but takes the afternoon off. The dog rushes out to greet him, but instead of frantically whining like he did on Monday, he makes some noises in his throat and quiets down pretty quickly.

The dog sleeps on the bed with him every night from that point on.

 

 

 

 

Another two weeks passed before Peter takes the dog back to the vet to have his stitches removed. He goes through it and the x-ray without a single grunt, placid like an oversize lamb. Unnerved by his silence, Peter tickles him in his bald spots to get him to talk, but only gets a wagging tail in return.

The x-ray shows no further issues, and the vet tells them as much. “No extreme exercise, but walks and trips to dog parks should be fine,” she says with a smile.

Peter decides the dog deserves a treat. They go to a Pets-R-Us, and Peter leads him through the aisles.

“What about a plushie? A little monkey?” Peter asks with the monkey raised for the dog to sniff. The dog makes a noise like a sneeze. “No? Alright, let’s keep looking.”

They stroll down the treat aisle that showcases all kinds of jerkies, chewables, and flavored bones. At these, the dog seems more intrigued, as he starts to trot and nose at everything. Peter tries to help narrow the options down by holding items out for the dog’s approval, but he’s running around like a kid in a candy shop, too excited to make up his mind. In the end, Peter decides to check out a few packets of bacon flavored crunch and dental sticks. There’s something called ‘Pup-peroni’, and he grabs those too. He reminds himself to dose them out in moderation. 

Before the day is over, they have already gone through a whole pack of Pup-peroni and two dental sticks. When he finally musters enough willpower to resist the dog’s sad brown eyes, he shoves everything away in the cabinets. The dog immediately starts complaining, and Peter has no doubt that if he can talk in human language, he’d be wailing woe is me in the most dramatic fashion.

 

Peter’s back in the warm cloud that night. In fact, it feels more like a sand bath this time, solid with a comfortable weight on his front. He wants to make a sand angel but can’t move. Peter doesn’t mind.

_Peter._

_What,_ Peter’s hazy mind thinks.

_Listen to me very carefully, Peter._

_Okay,_ Peter thinks with a twitch of wariness.

_I… need… that… bone. I need it._

“What bone,” Peter wakes up with a gasp, panting like he's been running for miles. His fingers twitch against a warm body. Looking down, he finds the dog has migrated in his sleep and is now lying on top of him, chest to chest. He relaxes under the furnace-like heat. What woke him up again? Peter can't recall. Before he knows it, he's sound asleep.

 

 

 

 

They always get a turkey for Thanksgiving, him and Aunt May. The record of the lasting time of the bird is 13 days. There's always leftovers, and there's leftovers of the leftovers. The amount of turkey pot pie he eats in November is enough to put him off of cream-based anything until the next time the holiday comes around, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Peter makes two pies every Thanksgiving, one apple and one pumpkin, because Aunt May doesn’t trust him enough to be in charge of anything else, and it’s almost impossible to fuck up ready-to-make pie crust and canned pumpkin stuffing. The secret of turning it from disgusting to finger-lickin’, as Julia Child would agree, is to dump a whole bunch of butter and cream in there and call it a day.

The dog is gnawing on the giant chorizo flavored FlexiChew bone merrily at Peter’s feet while he peels apples. He had gone back to the pet store and gotten it, hoping it’d pique the dog’s interest more than a stuffed animal. He’s glad to find the dog’s over the moon, so excited that he did a tippy-toe dance and yipped in overflowed joy when Peter pulled it out of the bag.

He still hasn’t posted the adoption anywhere and is not sure if he’s going to do it at this point. The dog has slowly but steadily opened up to him, smiling more and showing his belly from time to time, willingly exposing himself to Peter’s evil, tickling fingers. Despite being cooped up in the apartment most days, the dog doesn’t display any bad behaviors due to excess energy and is perfectly content lounging around like a cat on steroids. Peter also loves how the dog seems to always have something to say, making all sorts of noises in his throat. He never barks but does sometimes sing along with the Captain from Spongebob Squarepants when it’s on, and the scene never fails to make Peter laugh. 

He’s hopelessly in love with the affectionate, talkative, Hercules of a dog, and he’s not ready to let him go.

He felt something cold against his toes and looked down to see the dog putting his wet nose on them, puffing out warm breath like a mini humidifier. He swears sometimes the dog do weird stuff to get him out of his melancholy mood, but that’s crazy talk.

Peter wiggles his toes and nudges them against the dog’s chin to get him to look up. “Want some apples?” he asks after wiping his hand for a quick Google check to see if they are safe for dogs, which they are. The dog stands to watch Peter cut the peeled apple in pieces and carefully remove the core. He holds out a piece on his palm for the dog to swipe up with his long tongue. He feeds him some more and then messes with him by holding a piece of apple in his fist, letting only a tiny speck of it peeks out from the valley between his thumb and forefinger. The dog nibbles delicately at the speck, mindful of his sharp teeth so close to Peter’s skin, and when all there is that can be nibbled is nibbled, he licks around Peter’s clenched fist relentlessly until Peter can’t take it anymore and surrenders the rest to him.

“Alright, no more,” Peter says when he realizes almost a whole fruit has been diminished. Of course, the dog can probably pack away a dozen more and seems intent to do so, judging by the amount of licking around the lips he’s doing. The dog tries to lick at the other apple chunks on the counter before Peter taps him on the nose with a stern “Uh-uh.”

The dog obediently lifts up and away from the apples but can’t stop licking around his lips to savor all the remaining flavor. He’s standing so close to Peter that it seems natural that the licking somehow transfers to Peter’s upper arm. Before he knows it, the dog is full-on licking his arm nonstop, and the next second that tongue swipes just a bit more towards his torso and lands exactly on his nipple. 

He’s not wearing a shirt, and the lick makes tongue to skin contact.

He squeaks as the sensation shoots lighting fast and deep into his bones, but the dog doesn’t stop. He gets two more licks in before Peter remembers his hands and physically pushes him away. The dog watches Peter with all the doggy innocence in the world and keeps licking and smacking his lips. Peter doesn’t know what he’s doing; the apple flavor must be long gone by now.

They bring the pies to Aunt May’s apartment when they are baked to perfection. She pulls some turkey into strips and put them in a ceramic bowl for the dog, but oddly, the dog refuses to eat. They try yam, corn, a dollop of whipped cream, but none of them work. The dog just wouldn’t open his mouth. Aunt May suggests maybe he’s got a toothache, and they agree to take him to the vet for a check-up tomorrow. 

His old double bed is a tight squeeze, but they manage with the dog lying on top of his chest. Peter drifts into sleep with a belly full of good food and a tinge of worry in his mind.

 

_Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God._

_What?_ Peter thinks confusedly. He’s always confused when he hears that voice.

_Oh my God, Pete, I can literally rub one out right now. Oh my God!_

_You are making even less sense than usual,_ Peter remarks.

_That’s because I’ve become completely senseless, except for your taste in my mouth. You took all my other senses away. Why didn’t you wear a shirt!? No, wait, please don’t start wearing shirts. Also, please stop moving._

Peter continues to squirm. _There’s something poking my leg-_

Peter jolts awake, hand automatically trying to hold the dog close, except the dog’s not there anymore, and Peter squints in the dark to find him gingerly padding towards the unshut bedroom door. “Big boy?” he croaks.

The dog hesitates but dutifully turns and pads back to put his face close to Peter’s. He noses around his neck and chin, snuffles a bit, until Peter’s made drowsy once again by the warmth of his breath. He listens to the dog trudges out of the room as he falls back to sleep.

They find the bowl empty in the morning. 

 

 

 

 

The dog park in December is empty. Maybe all the dog owners are too busy shopping for Christmas to have doggy playdates. Not that Peter has made any dog-parent friends or scheduled anything for the dog; since he’s not neutered, Peter’s fairly sure any group activities will only result in puppies. Cute, but very expensive, he-can’t-afford puppies. Now he understands the increase of DINK rate worldwide. 

He unclips the leash from the dog’s collar. “You wanna show me how fast you can be?”

The dog makes a weird sound like _Har har har_ , and Peter irrationally thinks, _is he- laughing?_ Before the dog shoots off to chase after invisible creatures.

The dog indeed runs very fast when he’s allowed the space to. It’s really amazing how swift the dog heals back up without a trace of that nasty injury. He speeds across the fenced area, zigzags left and right and jumps to attack leaves that offends him at random, all while growling and yapping to himself. Sometimes he stops and looks around to check if Peter is still there, and Peter makes sure to give him a little wave every time. 

They’ve moved on to playing catch with a squeaky toy when two women enter the park with a Labrador. Peter watches the Lab as he stops the game and clips the leash back on (because, again, can’t afford unplanned pregnancies). Normally he would think a Lab is pretty big, but compares to his dog, it’s basically a cat.

One of the woman freezes and stares at the dog with wide eyes. “Deadpool,” she breathes, and then turns to the other woman and says, “Don’t let Bunny loose.”

“Did you name your dog Bunny?” Peter blurts.

The woman seethes. “Are you judging me on how I name my dog when you’ve brought a killing machine to a neighborhood dog park?” 

“A killing machine?” Peter snorts. “Look, lady, I’m sure you’re mistaken-”

“It’s hard to mistake _that_ , don’t you think?” the woman interrupts sarcastically. “Look at it, good as new again. It’s always been freaky like that.”

Peter pales at the realization. “Were you the one-”

“I didn’t do it,” the woman denies quickly. “But it had it coming. Acted wild. No one touched it without losing fingers. Almost bit a guy’s foot clean off from the ankle once. Can’t be tamed, they said. Eventually someone got real tired of him.”

Peter can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“I’m not completely heartless. Couldn’t let it just bleed out on the ground. Got it out before getting out myself. The point is, I don’t know how you are not missing a good chunk of your leg right now, but stay out and stay away. Deadpool dogs are dangerous, especially that one.”

“What are you calling him? Dead what?”

“Deadpool. It’s where it’s from, a dog fighting ring outside of Newport. They are all raised to kill.” 

The surprise makes way for the anger boiling in his gut. “You disgust me,” Peter spits.

The woman bites back. “Look, I was in a bad place. But I reported them; it’s gone. It didn’t erase my sin, but I’m trying to be better. All I’m saying is you don’t know what that thing there is capable of.”

“My dog is the gentlest dog on Earth. You don’t know what you are talking about.”

The woman laughs an ugly laugh. “Oh yeah? Look at it. It knows me. It understands what’s going on.”

Peter has been too busy arguing about the dog to notice how quiet and stiff he’s become. The line of his back is taut as a bowstring, eyes keen on the woman, lips curl back to show just a tiny bit of fangs in warning. Upon feeling Peter redirecting his focus, the dog looks up to meet his eyes. He doesn’t relax but give his tail a few wags nonetheless. The warning on the dog’s face looks eerily like Cheshire Cat’s maniac grin, and Peter feels a cocktail of emotions in his bloodstream: disbelief, anger and hurt for the dog’s past, fond exasperation and heartbreak for how the dog tries to appease Peter despite his very own obvious discomfort.

“We are leaving,” he promptly announces. “Not because we don’t have the right to be here, but because we don’t want to be here with you. If you’ve ever felt in danger when you were with my dog, or any dog for that matter, it’s because you’ve mistreated them first. You should be ashamed of what you did.”

He doesn’t stay long enough for the woman to come up with a retort. They walk past the other woman, who hasn’t uttered a single word during the whole conversation, her hands protectively on the Lab. Peter makes an effort to quell the urge of pointing out they should be disqualified of owning any pets for all eternity.

The short walk back home was brisk and silent. Contradictory to Peter’s exhausted mind, his body is on hyper mode, full of tension with no release. In truth, he would very much like to go to a gym and punch something until all his fingers are broken, or go buy that DSLR lens he’s been eyeing forever but can never afford unless he sell one of his kidneys. He’s pretty sure all the adrenaline in his head right now will give him enough courage to hand over his credit card.

They collapse collectively once back in the apartment with Peter turning the tv on to let the mindless noise of daytime program wash over them. He’s almost dozing off when he notices a rhythmic wet sound. He lifts his head to see the dog excessively licking his front paw, occasionally giving it a good chew. Peter sits up in alarm. When the dog shows no sign of stopping, he walks over and kneels down beside him.

“What are you doing there, big boy?” Peter reaches out a hand, but before he makes contact, the dog sneakily hides his paw under his chest and put his head down on the floor, looking up at Peter like nothing’s happened. “That’s how you’re gonna play it, huh?” Peter grunts and tries to poke his fingers underneath to get to his target, but the dog is insistent and noses his prying fingers away. Peter huffs at his stubbornness. “Alright, what about this?”

He scratches his fingers feather-light from the base of the dog’s floppy ears, his temples, his cheeks, his tightly sealed lips, until they reach his nose. Following the same route, he put some pressure into it and massage the same way back to the dog’s ears. He takes his time to focus on the root before moving upwards to rub the ears between his thumbs and other fingers. Peter smiles when happy noises start leaking out of the dog’s throat. He doubles down and rubs across the bridge of his nose, under his eyes, and the base of his whiskers until the dog’s eyes are all the way closed. “You wanna turn a little so I can get to your chin?” Peter whispers with a gentle nudge, and the dog goes along with it without suspicion.

With the dog’s head lolled to the side, Peter finally has an unobscured view of the paw. The bald spots are a shade of pink darker than usual, and where there’s fur, it’s wet and matted. Dutifully scratching the dog’s chin with one hand, Peter reaches out his other hand to part the fur, which reveals small open wounds, some oozing droplets of blood and some scabbing. Clearly the dog has been abusing the paw for a least a few days now. 

“I’m such a bad parent,” Peter moans miserably. The dog snaps his eyes open and plops his head back down to hide his uncovered paw. Peter lies down next to him with a sigh. “I saw already, there’s no point hiding it now.” The dog stares at him before slowly lowering his head to the paw and starts licking once more. “That doesn’t mean you can start doing it again!” Peter splutters. The dog watches him and continues licking.

“No.”

Lick.

“No.”

Lick.

“Please stop.”

Lick.

Peter reaches out and squeezes the dog’s face in both of his hands. The dog snakes his tongue out through the gap between Peter’s hands and gives his paw another lick.

“Alright, okay, here,” Peter mutters and puts his hand on the dog’s paw, loosely holding it in his palm, effectively blocking any further licking. The dog watches him curiously, and then gives the hand that’s blocking his paw a lick. And another. And another. Before long, the dog is enthusiastically licking the same spot again, except now it’s Peter’s hand and not his own. Peter sighs in defeat. “Fine, sure, lick me instead.” The dog happily complies. 

“What she said bothers me,” Peter says quietly into the space between them. “You know, the woman at the park. And maybe she’s being honest, that she didn’t want to be there and that she reported it to put an end to things, but I can’t stop the vicious thoughts in my head. How could someone do that? Be a part of that? Of- of- hurting living, breathing animals. Hurting you. You’re so sweet, and have never hurt anyone since I’ve met you, even when you’re scared at the vet. Never even growled at people.”

The dog stops to listen to Peter talk.

“And so smart. Sometimes I feel like you almost understand what I’m saying, and that’s crazy, but part of me believe that’s true, and that same part of me thinks that sometimes you try to talk back to me in your own way, I just wish that I understand what you’re saying, or else I wouldn’t be foolish enough to convince myself that a few days of conditioning would actually make you less stressed. I’m sorry, baby,” Peter apologizes. 

“I’m sorry you were treated that way, and I’m sorry I haven’t been good enough to you, but I swear I’ll do better. Tomorrow we’ll go to the vet and have your hand looked at, and I think we are finally ready to make this official. To make you mine. To make this place your forever home. I mean, not here, I’m saving for a bigger place- oof.”

The dog crawls on top of Peter half way through his rant and licks his face with renewed vigor. The only thing Peter can do is shut his eyes so as not to get his eyeballs unintentionally assaulted by that energetic tongue. The dog has never given him kisses before, and it warms his heart that they are at a place where the dog is comfortable enough to do that.

That night, when they settle in bed, the dog looks Peter straight in the eyes and raises his paw to his mouth. Peter laughs so hard he has to wheeze for breath. 

“If you want me to hold your hand, you can just ask, you know,” Peter says when he finally calms down enough to form words. He drifts into sleep with the paw in his hand, the dog mumbling contently in his ears.

 

_I like living with you._

_I live by myself,_ Peter thinks confusedly.

_No, no, I live with you now. I’m staying forever, you said so._

_Oh, it’s you,_ Peter sighs in relief. He does live with someone, he remembers now, although it’s a bit foggy who that someone is.

_I don’t want to be a Deadpool dog anymore. I like being your Big Boy._

_Okay,_ Peter agrees easily. The familiar weight on his chest feels different somehow. Less hairy. More muscular. He pats down to feel firm globes. Hey, he can move!

“I also liked it when you call me ‘baby’.”

Peter’s eyes snap open. They meet the most beautiful hazel irises he’s ever seen.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do I keep DP a dog or turn him back into a real boy? I'm definitely hoping to continue this story in the future. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Please do not adopt any action done to the dog in this fic in real life.
> 
> Thank you for reading, kudoing, bookmarking, and commenting. You bring me joy and I’m deeply grateful.


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